Team Fortress 2: Beginnings
by MadHighlander
Summary: The origin stories of the Teams as we know them.  As it's my first fanfic, I thought I'd ease myself in with a couple really short, simple bits  feedback strongly appreciated .  Rated T just in case.
1. Introduction: Seeing Red

The young woman in the purple dress opened the door nervously. "Mr Mann."

The old man at whom the question was directed coughed and shifted one of the ancient wires attached to his muscles.

"What do you want?" he said rudely.

"Well, sir, it's about the Team..." She was referring to a team of elite mercenaries that Mann had assembled in the 1880's to assassinate his brother.

"What about them?"

"Well, sir, they're sort of dead..."

"What? Since when?"

"I'm not sure. The pigeon that carried the notice must have gotten lost. Someone found it in a chimney in Germany last week."

"How does a pigeon get lost?"

"Sir, it's only a bird..."

Mann coughed and looked at an old, sepia-colored photograph on his desk. It depicted an old man in a bed, surrounded by a group of people: an old woman in a purple overcoat, a tall, thick-set man dressed in leather and carrying a rifle, a much, much younger version of Mann himself, and another who had once been Mann's twin brother, Blutarch. A tarnished pushpin had been stuck through Blutarch's face. "Well, we can't have a gap that my infernal brother Blutarch could exploit. Not even for a second. Find a new team. And a new pigeon while you're at it."

"Sir, pigeons are obsolete. We could conceivably receive all updates by Email nowadays."

"We'll never get anywhere if you keep questioning me, now, will we, Miss Pauling?" Mann scowled angrily at the woman.

"...No sir."

And there's the first chapter. It's a little short, but it is my first fanfic. I'm hoping I'll improve with time. Feedback is much appreciated, and I'll get Sniper's chapter up on Monday or Tuesday.


	2. Chapter 1: Long Shot

The majestic water buffalo walked slowly to the watering hole. It looked up, scanned cautiously from side to side, and bent over to drink.

Then, with a loud BANG, it keeled over, dead.

Three quarters of a mile away, Trent Mundy shouldered his long-barreled rifle, picking up a pair of binoculars. Gazing through them, he muttered, "Weren't expecting that, were ya, wanker!" Setting down the binoculars, he picked up the keys to his motor home and was about to step out of his specially constructed hunter's blind when his phone rang.

Picking it up, he said shortly, "Hello, who's calling?"

"Oh, hey Mum. Listen, not the most perfect time here-"

"I'm a sniper, Mum. I don't need another job. Send 'em away."

"Oh, fine. I'll come and talk to them. Thanks, Mum."

Mundy hung up, sighing. He looked back at the water buffalo through his binoculars. Scavengers were already starting to approach it. He shot one of the rats, missing, but succeeding in scaring them away.

Muttering under his breath, he climbed into his vehicle and drove off towards the pond.

/

And there's my oneshot describing how the Sniper got hired. I am trying to make all the chapter titles puns on the characters described in the section. Once again, reviews are appreciated. up next is everyone's favorite mad doctor; the Medic.


	3. Chapter 2: Spineless

Hershel Fleischer was the sort of man who liked to whistle while he worked. His colleagues would have frowned on that sort of thing, especially given that to do so, he removed his face mask an allowed tiny droplets of spittle to settle in his patient's chest cavity.

This, of course, was the hard part of what he was attempting to do. He had in fact finished the procedure that had originally been scheduled (a gastric bypass surgery) and was now working on one of his own experiments.

It was proving surprisingly difficult to keep a heart beating without ribs.

He had already replaced the skull with a metallic framework to keep the brain intact. All the other bones but the ribcage had already been removed. He had accidentally ruptured the patient's eardrum while removing the inner ear, but other than that the operation was proceeding perfectly according to plan. He had rigged a small metal sphere that served the dual purpose of keeping tension in the lungs as well as occasionally jolting the heart if its beats became too sporadic.

"Very nice, there..." he muttered to himself, carefully sliding the third rib out of its place. Upon removing it, he tossed it into a barrel beside the gurney where it clattered against the tibula and came to rest between the pelvis and the collarbone.

There was a knocking at the door. "Go away, I am busy."

"Doctor Fleischer, there's someone here to see you."

"Very well. I will see them when I have finished. Now go away." He threw another rib into the barrel, and, looking up, hastily swapped the empty anasthetic feed for a new one.

"Doctor, they're very insistent."

"So am I! Shoo! I will see them when I have finished this delicate operation!" Out of habit, he made a tiny shooing motion with the second-last rib. Some tiny droplets of blood flicked off the end and struck the door. He dropped it into the barrel with its fellows.

"They say they're from..." the nurse paused. "The Reliable Excavation & Demolition company?"

Hershel snorted. "Tell them I will meet with them in my office. I am just wrapping up here." He pulled out the final rib, flicking off some blood drops.

/

And theres the Medic's story, inspired by a quote from Meet the Medic. ("...and when ze patient woke up, his skeleton was missing, and ze doctor was never heard from again!") Thanks for the review. Up next, the mysterious masked man (or woman, or robot, or whatever it may be): the Pyro!


	4. Chapter 3: the Ring of Fire

"Murr hurr hurr!"

The strange man in the fire-retardant suit looked up at the building, chuckling. He picked up a flower-print purse from the suit's pocket, and withdrew an old fashioned pocket watch from it. He looked at the time, and then put it away, looking back at the building. He then looked into the glass doors just in front of him. He held up one thick-gloved hand, with five fingers raised.

He put down one finger.

Then another.

Another.

A fourth.

With a loud FWOOSH, fire burst from the windows and the glass door of the edifice. The man laughed, his voice muffled, as he was engulfed in flames, protected from harm by his fire-proof suit.

"Huhh huhh huhh!"

He turned away and walked down the sidewalk, still chuckling. Suddenly, he was stopped by a woman dressed in purple.

"Hurr huhh hahh murrm."

"You have a unique aptitude for lighting things on fire, mister...?"

"Hurrm."

"Okay..." She looked at his mask, trying to see through the shaded eyeholes. "Would you like to be paid five million dollars a year to do so?"

"Murra hurra hurr."

"Arbitrarily, I'm going to assume that means yes. Call this number," she handed the man a slip of paper with a phone number on it, "And the person who picks up will arrange a place for you to meet your co-workers. And once you call the number... um... burn the paper."

"Hurr hurr hurr!" the man pulled a small Zippo lighter out of his suit's pocket and held it up.

"Good day to you too."

/

And there's the pyro. I couldn't resist making him Canadian. Or maybe he isn't. I'll leave it up to interpretation whether I intended him to actually live in Yellowknife. Anyway, up next is the good old explosive-loving black Scottish cyclops, the Demoman.


	5. Ch 4: Tale of a Black Scottish Cyclops

I couldn't think of a snappy title for this one. Oh well.

/

"Let's do it!" yelled Tavish DeGroot to himself. He pitched another waterproof case into the murky waters of the Loch.

His attempt to take out the Loch Ness Monster, while having succeeded, also took out his original set of adoptive parents and a good section of the dock. He had been practising with a giant fishtank near his home and figured he'd gotten good enough with the good old potassium chlorate to only take out his target this time: the Loch Broom Monster.

He piloted the skiff back to the lake shore, where he disembarked and hid in the bushes. He looked at his watch and scratched the patch covering his empty right eye socket.

He snapped his fingers, and right on cue, the entire lake and everything on it jumped into the air with a sound like a giant beating a rug. It fell back with a splash and a fine mist of water droplets spread across the surrounding hills.

Tavish laughed maniacally, chugging from his bottle of homemade liquor, which he called 'scrumpy'. Just then someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he almost knocked them out with the bottle.

He couldn't quite make them out through the fog that his detonation had created, but when they spoke their voice sounded like a woman's.

"My employer believes you're the best Demoman this side of the western hemisphere."

"Lass, I'm the bes' damn Demoman any side of any hemsphere." Tavish's voice was slurred drunkenly.

"He asked me to offer you a job, with pay of five million dollars per year."

"Ye had me a' 'Job', lass." He swigged from his bottle of Scrumpy.

His skiff fell out of the sky, knocking over a tree and smashing on a rock, the largest pieces rolling several meters before coming to rest.

/

Ka-Boom! Just a few things to say before wrapping up: one; to the best of my knowledge, there is no monster or legend of a monster in Loch Broom. Two; I'd also like to thank those of you who took the time to review. Three; Up next, the gun-loving, hyper-patriotic, and slightly paranoid Soldier! (and his vaguely scottish roommate Merasmus the Magician)


	6. Chapter 5: The Art of War

I always wondered why the Soldier had a woman's name. Oh well, it's canon.

/

Jane Doe was doing what he spent most of his time doing: cleaning his copious selection of weaponry, much of which he was pretty sure might possibly be illegal. After all, you didn't see many people walking around with a rocket launcher. Nonetheless, he kept them out of what he called prudence, although others called it paranoia, in case of invasion from the north.

And his roommate never cleaned anything, let alone the weapons. Jane wouldn't have trusted him to do so, anyway, because he strongly doubted his roommate had even seen a handgun before. His roommate's name was Merasmus, and he was a Scottish witch doctor.

"FOOL! Thine beef jerky belongs not near my collection of staves!"

There was Merasmus now. "Well, maybe your stick collection doesn't belong with my beef jerky, huh?" replied Jane.

"'Tis my beef jerky, now! Gaze not upon it!"

"Why you little maggot!" Jane stood up, putting away his shotgun.

"Maggots are valuable artifacts of healing! Do not try to insult me with them!"

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"GAZE NOT upon the visitor!" shouted Merasmus.

Muttering angrily, Jane approached the door and cocked the shotgun built into the peephole. "Who's there?"

"My name is Pauling. I'd like to offer you a job, on behalf of Mr. Redmond Mann."

"Not interested!"

"Thou art OVERDUE on thine rent, fool! Take the job!"

Miss Pauling continued, "Did I mention you will be able to shoot at a lot of people?"

Jane hesitated. "What kinds of people?"

"German, Australian, Scottish..."

"I'm in!" Jane reached through a metal port on the side of the door, groped for the visitor's hand, and shook it. He then turned about, and marched off to continue his interrupted argument with Merasmus.

/

And there's the story of the Soldier. Thank you for all of the reviews. Next, I'll put up the tale of the smooth, suave Spy.


	7. Chapter 6: I, Spy

I had a lot of problems with this. Mostly, it was just the file becoming corrupt and unusable and forcing me to start over, but here it is.

/

"More wine, Madame?"

Jean Mendel proffered a bottle of wine in an ornate bucket.

"Oui, monsieur."

He refilled the woman's glass.

Of course, Jean Mendel didn't actually work at this restaurant. Technically, he didn't work anywhere. He was a contract killer, an assassin. And he did industrial espionage in his spare time. He was a master of disguise and urban camouflage, and well practised with his favorite butterfly knife.

In this particular instance, he had been hired to steal a briefcase from the woman at the table. He had been duly assured that he could have the contents of the briefcase in payment. Walking away, he slipped into the kitchen. He removed his waiter's outfit. Underneath it he was wearing one of his famous (or infamous) urban camouflage suits: dyed to the exact same colour as the restaurant's carpet. Nobody would, in theory, notice him unless they knew he was there. He then donned a balaclava of the same wine-red colour, and slipped out the door back into the dining room, laying flat on the floor. He crawled slowly back towards the table.

As he reached the edge of it, he heard a soft thump, indicating that the drug he had placed in the wine had taken effect. Slipping silently under the table, he found the briefcase simply leaning against the table leg.

He picked it up, carefully moving the woman's hand away from the handle, and crawled to the restaurant's rear exit. Secure in the alleyway, he flicked the catch and opened the briefcase.

It contained only a note.

_Mr Mendel,_

_ Good job. I would like to hire you permanently; we have a great deal of jobs for someone of your particular talents. Five million dollars cash, per year. If interested, call the secure number on the reverse side of this page._

_ Sincerely,_

_Redmond Mann_

_Reliable Excavation & Demolition_

_ P.S. I hope you did not kill Miss Pauling. Good assistants are so hard to find nowadays._

Jean stared at the note for a few seconds. He flipped it over, and sure enough, there was an international long-distance number on the other side.

Muttering about Americans, he stuffed the note in his pocket, and removed the balaclava, placed it in the briefcase, and re-entered the street, walking off toward his hotel room.

/

Thus, came the Spy. And yes, I made his name an alteration of 'Mentlegen'. When I thought of that I just couldn't resist using it. Looking ahead, barring unforeseen circumstances, this should be finished by the weekend. Up next, we have the speedy, baseball-and-Bonk loving Bostonian, the Scout.


	8. Chapter 7: Talent Scouting

The Drake family household was a chaotic place at the best of times. But this was family reunion week. The eight Drake boys, despite being adults by this time, hadn't changed one bit since they were children and had been forced to share two rooms between them.

Adrian, the eldest, was demonstrating his ability to keep two of his protesting brothers in a headlock at once. Jake (Yes, Jake Drake, he knows very well how funny that is) was showing off his ability to juggle plates (He wasn't nearly as good as he claimed to be), and his brothers Rob and Pete were laboring to sweep up the shards, partially because Jake had told them to, and partially because they were afraid of what would happen if their mother found out what had happened to her fine china. Meanwhile, Dave was sitting at a table trying to ignore his siblings, which was difficult because Nathan, the youngest of all, had obtained what he called the 'greatest sugar high since elementary school' and was running in circles around the table, occasionally bombarding his elder brother with an empty can of '_Bonk! Atomic Punch!'._

Their mother was in the kitchen, trying to prepare supper for the entire family. Without help. She was also talking on the phone.

"No, Meredith. No, I'm sorry, I can't talk now. No, this steak is going to burn. I'm sorry."

No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again.

She turned off the stove quickly and ran back to the telephone. Maybe this time it would be that Frenchman who she'd spoken to yesterday. On arriving, though, she saw that it was not so; the display read 'Number blocked'.

Swearing, she picked up the phone and said angrily into the receiver, "If this is a telemarketer, god help me..."

"What kind of a name is 'Pauling'?"

"Yes, this is Mary Drake. Why do you want to talk to Nathan?"

"Well, it's about time someone called him about a job!"

She opened the door to the living room. Her sons froze. A china plate hit the floor with a crash, and she glared at Jake for a moment, before saying, "Nathan, phone for you!"

"Thank god!" sighed Dave, who would finally get some peace and quiet.

Nathan ran to the nearest phone and picked it up.

/

Scout. This was actually one of my earlier written chapters, dunno why I didn't put it up until now. Next chapter, we meet the highly-intelligent Australium-packin' Texan, the Engineer. After that, there's just the Heavy and a final, concluding chapter.


	9. Chapter 8: When Life Gives You Lemons

Here I included an appearance by Cave Johnson (from Portal 2). I don't think it's a major enough appearance to call the whole thing a crossover.

/

Dell Conagher had just returned home from university. He now had eleven PhDs in various areas of engineering. He had been hailed at every university campus as a genius, but technically, he couldn't take all the credit. Some belonged to his lucky charm, inherited from his grandfather Radigan: a pendant made from the rare, mind enhancing mineral Australium.

He looked over some diagrams and blueprints he had drawn up in his spare time: a hand-held cloaking device, a chemical which accelerated cell regrowth, a molecular dissociation and re-assemblage machine. His grandfather had created many incredible things as well, but had declined to release them to the world at large. What few items had been released were beginning to break down, and without Radigan Conagher to repair them, nobody could get them working again. The Australians could probably do it, but they suspected Conagher of stealing Australium, and in any event, the quality of Australian merchandise was decreasing itself recently.

Someone knocked on the door to Dell's office.

"Come in!" he shouted over his shoulder.

In walked a tall man, somewhat aged, wearing a suit at least thirty years out of date, his once-brown hair receding and graying. The man coughed several times, expelling what looked like a cloud of dust from his mouth.

"I'm Cave Johnson. I'd like to invite you to come work at Aperture Labs."

"Never heard of them."

"Never heard of the Aperture Science Hand-Held Portal Device?"

"Nope."

"I didn't expect you would have. But I have a feeling you'd be able to help us on one of our upcoming projects: Combustible Lemons!" Johnson's smile hadn't wavered once since he walked into the office.

"What would anyone want with combustible lemons?"

"It's just a hunch I've got."

Dell grunted. "What would I be paid?"

"That depends. We lost a lot of cash on the Long Fall Boot... turns out nobody is going to go jumping off 15-story buildings if they wanted to live in the first place. But, people might be interested in our upcoming project: the Aperture Science Integrated Artificial Personality and Pipe De-icer. At the moment, though, you'll have to just work for the joy of advancing Science."

"How are you even..." Dell was interrupted by another knock on the door. This time, a young woman entered, wearing a purple dress and glasses, with dark black hair.

"Mister Conagher, I presume?" she was actually looking at Cave.

"I'm Conagher." said Dell.

The woman turned to face him. "My employer wishes to offer you a job, and I'm authorized to offer you payment of up to five million dollars annually."

"Deal." Said Conagher.

Cave coughed several times and then said, "What about Science?"

"Science can stuff it. I like to be paid."

/

And there's our old friend the Engineer, possibly the most involved with the affairs of RED and BLU through his grandfather Radigan. Next we'll see the Heavy Weapons Guy, and his frozen siberian home. Just the way he likes it. I have a lot of free time today, so not only that but the concluding chapter (featuringf the BLU team) should be up by tonight.


	10. Chapter 9: A Heavy Decision

I used this chapter, not only to bring in the heavy weapons guy, but to wrap up the Red Team in general. I am concerned that I may have neglected the Heavy himself, but there it is.

/

The gulag looked forlorn, abandoned and coated in frost and ice. Tattered Soviet flags hung from the flagpoles, and skeletons littered the ground, wearing old Soviet army clothing. One skeleton hung from a horizontal flagpole as if he had been thrown against it with some force.

Home sweet home for Pyotr Turgenev. Turgenev looked out over the frozen Siberian forests and bit into a ham sandwich. He carried his chain gun with him at all times, and had even recently taken to calling it Sascha, after his sister who had been killed during the revolt to reclaim the gulag from the Soviets who had controlled it.

He hoisted the barrel, looking closer at the trees. He could have sworn he saw something moving.

Then a man walked out from behind the trees. He walked slowly, to avoid being seen, but of course Turgenev had already seen him. Turgenev started spinning up the barrel of Sascha.

The man wore a long trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. As a result, Turgenev could not make out his features.

"You there! Little man!"

The man turned. When he was halfway about, Turgenev caught the glint of a pistol in his hand. With a loud roar, Sascha spat out the equivalent of four hundred thousand dollars at the man, effectively chewing him up.

Turgenev shouldered the smoking chain gun and approached the man. Kicking aside his bloodied trenchcoat, Turgenev saw that the object he had taken for a pistol was actually a miniature television. He picked it up carefully, noting that it was almost completely undamaged.

The screen flickered, and Turgenev almost dropped it, before it settled into the image of an old woman in a purple suit.

"Mister Turgenev, I presume?"

"Why send this little man instead of coming yourself?"

"Because I don't like the cold. I despise it. Ordinarily I'd send Miss Pauling to do this sort of thing, but I thought, and Mister Mann agreed, that there was a significant risk of being shot to death. And as Redmond would say, you just can't find good assistants in this day and age. So, I borrowed one of Saxton Hale's flunkies, strapped this television to him, and sent him on his merry way."

In the background, there was a loud crash, and a French-accented voice said, "Merde," before being drowned out by a slurred Scotsman shouting something unintelligible about grass and asses.

The woman turned around and yelled at them to shut up. She then turned around and said, "Please excuse Nathan Drake. He is the only grown man I have ever met who habitually indulges in a sugar rush."

"Why did you go to such trouble to talk with me?" said Turgenev, with just a hint of sarcasm.

"There's no need for sarcasm, Mister Turgenev. These miniature TVs cost money. In any event, I-"

There was a loud splat, a crash like breaking glass, and a large red object flew across the background.

"Would you keep it down!" shouted the woman. "I am trying to communicate with Mister Turgenev!"

A voice with a thick German accent replied, "My apologies!" and then more quietly, "Could you please retrieve Mister Mundy's heart for me?"

A short, heavy-set man with a pair of soot-covered goggles around his forehead walked behind the woman's chair as she rubbed her forehead with one hand. A moment later, he returned holding a small red object out in front of him that looked suspiciously like a human heart with an electrode attached. He yelled back at the German in a Southern US accent, "Got it!"

After he passed, the woman continued, "As I was saying, my name is Helen. I wish to offer you a job with Redmond Mann's company. You will be paid five million U.S. dollars annually, or the equivalent in local currency, if you wish. In addition-"

She was cut off again, this time by a loud WHOOSH as a large black object flew overhead, trailing smoke. There was a loud popping noise accompanied by muffled laughter, and the object flew back in the direction it came. There was a loud thumping noise, the screen jittered, and dust fell from the ceiling.

Helen looked to her side and yelled angrily, "MISTER DOE! Restrain yourself!"

She looked back at the screen and said, "In addition, you will be allowed to keep and use that weapon." She gestured vaguely towards Sascha. "Should you accept, this television will give you all the information you need to join us."

"I will take job." Turgenev grinned.

/

I just noticed that this is the longest chapter. Huh. Anyway, there's the Heavy Weapons Guy. Next chapter will conclude the tale with the origin of the BLU team. Hint: the first year, Engineer and Medic recieved an extra million dollars in their paychecks.


	11. Conclusion: Feeling BLU

"Would the Engineer and the Medic please report to the Administrator's office. Immediately." The Administrator's voice ground and rasped from an entire life spent almost perpetually smoking a cigarette. The old, scratchy speaker system didn't help either.

Conagher and Hershel looked at each other. "What'd we do?" asked Conagher, pulling up his goggles onto his forehead. Hershel shrugged.

The two walked down to the Administrator's office, passing the new Heavy Weapons Guy, who appeared to be sharing a sandwich with his chain gun. On coming to the door, they knocked, and the door was opened by none other than Saxton Hale of MannCo. He looked at the two, pocketed a wad of cash, and then jumped out the far window, yelling "SAXTOOOON HAAAAAALE!"

Conagher looked after him for a moment. Then the two turned around and walked into the office. The Administrator was sitting behind her desk, the microphone moved aside.

"I must apologise for Saxton's eccentricity. He insisted on compensation for the loss of that pawn I sent north to find our Heavy Weapons Guy."

"Was zere something you wanted?" asked Hershel, sitting down.

"I have a specific job for you two. It's not something I can trust to the other team members, because quite simply they couldn't do it. You will be given an extra million in your first paycheck in exchange."

Conagher sat down in the other chair. "What do we need to do?"

"It's quite simple. I want you to create completely identical clones of your teammates and yourselves, but replace all the references to 'RED' with 'BLU' and vice versa. I know that Mister Conagher has developed a memory storage device, and Mister Fleischer has a comprehensive knowledge of the theory of reconstructing an identical physical copy of an individual."

Conagher leaned forward. "Don't you work for Redmond Mann? Why would you want us to create a team for Blutarch?"

"Mister Conagher, I work for both Redmond and Blutarch. That's why I wear purple, you see. RED and BLU together." She picked at the button of her coat. "Between us, Miss Pauling and I have more power than Redmond and Blutarch Mann put together. My grandmother promised their father in 1850 that we would keep the balance between them until one or both of them was dead. That's why we've worked all these years to keep the Teams from fulfilling their original purpose. And when Blutarch hired Radigan Conagher to build him a life-extending machine, my mother traded one hundred pounds of Australium to him in exchange for an identical device for Redmond. Now, I need an Identical team to Redmond's to be created for Blutarch."

"Ma'am, I don't know if I can make a clone, let alone one of myself."

"That's why the both of you are here. My family made a promise. We will continue to carry it out until the end of time if need be."

Hershel stood up. "I suppose we can do it. It will take, I do not know how long, perhaps anywhere from a week to a month."

"Two mill and I'll make it a week." said Dell, also standing up.

"Then you'd better get to work, then." said the Administrator, throwing out the butt of her cigarette and lighting another.

Hershel and Conagher walked out the door. "If it becomes absolutely necessary," whispered Conagher, "We've all got family members or other associates who knew which company hired us. We can ask them if we start becoming uncertain as to whether or not we're the originals."

Hershel nodded, opening the door to admit Miss Pauling, holding a clipboard and pen in one hand and a huge stack of papers under the other arm. The two left after her.

The Administrator looked up at Miss Pauling. "Did you do it?"

Miss Pauling nodded. "I've wiped the recent memories of everyone the Team told about their new job. Once the Engineer and the Medic complete their assignment, only you or I will be able to definitively say which team is the original and which are clones."

The administrator smiled. "Excellent. Alongside Conagher's Respawn Chamber, this will ensure precise balance between the brothers for the rest of time."

/

And now, it's over. For the rest of eternity, the Teams will end up doing the same thing they always do. I'm not sure what I'll do now I've finished this. I do have a piece of original fiction all typed up already, so I might move over to Fictionpress for a while.


End file.
